


Unto The Breach

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Worship, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demanding Demons, Explicit Sexual Content, Fisting, Idiots in Love, Kink Meme, M/M, Plot What Plot, Vintage Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale puts his vintage lube to use, Crowley is an encourageable fiend, and new experiences are had by all.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 475
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Unto The Breach

The sheets have slipped off the bed entirely, though that doesn't seem important, since they clearly have no intention of sleeping any time soon. Crowley is a long, naked stretch of skin and muscle beneath Aziraphale's hands, all hard curves of bone at hips, knees and shoulders. He's an absolute vision, and Aziraphale will forgive himself for getting distracted by the way the demon rolls and shivers under the slow sweep of hands up his thighs and waist. He's been distracted for quite a while, truth be told, by the long plane of Crowley's chest, the way his head tips back every time Aziraphale presses his mouth somewhere sensitive, tastes the smokey tartness of him. The way he makes sharp noises in his throat when Aziraphale dares to let his teeth graze the skin, when he carefully avoids the stiffened peak of a nipple, much to Crowley's squirming frustration. Crowley has both his own hands thrown up over his head, narrow fingers tangling in the headboard, the rolling ladder of his ribs prominent and strangely vulnerable on every slow breath.

"Angel," Crowley says impatiently, as if he'd noticed Aziraphale's over-long moment of greedy indulgence and is inclined to shake him out of it. There's a quick press of toes against his bare thigh, scales rippling on the surface of them, before Crowley's long thighs open pointedly, hips lifting. "Forgetting something?"

"Not at all, I was simply admiring you while you were content to be still." A habit that Crowley doesn't seem inclined to break him of, for all his protests and sounds of impatience. "Those are rare moments indeed."

Crowley laughs, leg sliding affectionately against Aziraphale's arm, the dark hairs there trailing his skin in a tickle of sensation. The demon's mouth twists sideways at his resulting shiver, clearly pleased by the reaction.

Aziraphale holds a hand out, which is immediately filled, by miracle, with a bottle of oil he'd acquired some time ago.

Crowley tips his head back in the pillows, amused noise rolling out of his throat, even as he shifts himself into an easier position to be fingered.

"I should have known before we started doing this that even your bloody lube would be vintage." His tone of disapproval is not even attempting to be serious, mouth pulled up at the side in a crooked smile.

"You didn't seem to have any complaints the last time we used it," Aziraphale reminds him. Normally it's Crowley, grabbing lubricant out of the ether, or performing a far more impatient miracle of an intimate nature. Aziraphale would protest more often, if he didn't think there was just a hint of desperation fuelling it. Neither of them are quite used to the idea that they're free to have this yet, that they're free to indulge themselves with each other, for hours, or for days if they want to. It's barely been a year since the world nearly ended. No time at all really, not to them. 

"I wasn't paying attention to the lube situation last time," Crowley mutters. "Since, if I remember rightly, you bent me over the back of the sofa and nailed me so hard I forgot what languages were."

"Crude but not entirely inaccurate," Aziraphale allows. "Though I did enjoy the way you attempted to hiss my name afterwards." The sleepy sibilant rushes against the side of his face, given with the tickling curl of a long, forked tongue, had been unexpectedly arousing. Though Aziraphale is determined not to share the information. He fears that Crowley already has him helplessly ensnared. Let him discover it for himself.

Crowley's mouth scrunches, in a way that really has no business being so attractive.

"Yes, yes, mock the afflicted. How about I promise not to make fun of your vintage sex oils any more if you get your fingers in me." He jiggles a skinny thigh pointedly.

Aziraphale grumbles complaint at him, though there's no heat to it at all, he is weak, as always, to the demon's wiles. Still, he's pleased by the shaken noise of honest lust that he gets when he grasps Crowley's pointy hips and pulls him in closer, with no effort at all. Before he's coating his fingers with oil, and then rubbing them indulgently over the tight clench of Crowley's arsehole. He sees no reason to hurry, especially not when the act is so enticing all on its own. The moment just before he breaches Crowley's body, coaxing him to open and allow him in.

"Stop teasing," Crowley grumbles.

"I will do no such thing," Aziraphale says flatly, which pulls an expected laugh out of his greedy, impatient demon.

Crowley takes a finger perfectly, thigh pulling up as Aziraphale pushes it carefully inside, thumb rubbing at the glorious spare curve of his buttock. Crowley has stopped offering complaints, hips squirming down into the pressure with a hum of appreciation. Aziraphale can't resist sliding his finger free and pressing inside with two instead, giving three slippery pushes, and watching that tense muscle relax around the intrusion.

"You always look so beautiful like this," Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley gives a snort of amusement. 

"With my arsehole stretched open on your fingers?" He seems to think that voicing it out loud will make the image less devastatingly affecting.

Aziraphale ignores the mockery and hums agreement. 

"Yes, I can feel how deliciously tight you are, how much you want to close around me, to keep me inside. The way your rim goes so beautifully red the more I play with it."

Crowley inhales a shocked breath at that, mutters something about leading angels into temptation. But Aziraphale can feel the way he squirms under the attention. The way he's so obviously appreciative of the compliments, for all his hissing and pouting. He can be so difficult, so resistant to praise, but Aziraphale has always found him to be worth it. 

"I could do this for hours," he admits, finds it nothing more than the honest truth. If not for Crowley's famous impatience, and Aziraphale's own weakness to the demon's clearly voiced needs, he might have had the opportunity already.

Crowley groans and lets his thighs sway open wider, hips tilting up in mute demand, in a way that purposefully nudges Aziraphale's fingers deeper.

"Sounds terribly dull," Crowley says, which is a shameless enough lie to pull a laugh out of Aziraphale. There's a slow rocking motion that follows every slide, as if Crowley can't bear not to participate in every act of an intimate nature, then a hum that sounds considering. "You want to put more in me, angel?"

"I rather thought that was the point," Aziraphale murmurs. Not only the point, but his intention, if a bratty demon would stop wriggling. Mind you, the wriggling does have some merits. It gives him a perfect view of Crowley's beautifully long legs. The way they pull and stretch impatiently, sharp hip bones canting teasingly upwards on every slow push. His long, sloping chest rises when his shoulders push down, ribs pressing at the skin. Crowley's nudity is angular and sinuous, always moving, curves slight and spare in a way that makes them all the more precious. Crowley offers it all so freely, and Aziraphale doubts he will ever grow tired of it.

"Not your cock." Crowley tilts his head to look down his body, at where Aziraphale's forearm is moving lewdly between his legs, and he clearly finds the sight arousing. "All your fingers, your thumb, your whole damn hand."

Aziraphale goes very still, at the _thought_ of it. Of watching Crowley's anus stretch open around the thick width of all of his fingers, the meat of his palm, the curling tuck of his thumb, all the way to his - he finds himself suddenly breathless. It's not a sex act he's ever participated in, but the thought of doing it for Crowley, of Crowley wanting it from him, he can't say it doesn't appeal tremendously.

"Oh," he says simply. The logistics will be interesting. Crowley will perhaps need to be at a different angle. They'll probably need more oil. He'll have to be more careful than the demon usually allows.

Crowley's laugh is far too smug, far too knowing, as if he can see him thinking. "You like that idea, don't you, angel?"

"Can I? Would you enjoy that, do you think?" Aziraphale gives the fingers he already has in him a considering twist, knuckles tugging Crowley's gently stretched hole, imagining how much more he will have to stretch him out.

Crowley gives a full body shrug. "Don't know, never tried it, but I hear it's good. Get more of your vintage lube in me, and we'll give it a go."

Aziraphale considers it for a minute, and then drags one of the thick pillows down from the top of the bed.

"Hips up then, I need a better angle for the both of us."

Crowley complies, with a good-natured grumble, letting Aziraphale shove the pillow under the small of his back and the top of his arse.

"You just want a good view is all."

Aziraphale huffs annoyance. "You're one to talk, the last time I gave myself a vagina you spent four hours with your head between my legs, calling me a glistening vision."

"I didn't hear you complaining," Crowley points out, refusing to feel any shame whatsoever. "Sobbing, swearing and wailing like a fucking banshee, occasionally begging to be fucked, but not one single complaint."

"You're a fiend," Aziraphale tells him, and then slithers a third finger in alongside the first two. He spends a while working him open, indulges in it, in the glisten of his fingers, twisting and folding over each other and then spreading gently to ease Crowley's rim outwards, watching the deeply arousing pull of it. He lets his smallest finger tuck in as well, a delicious addition that has Crowley hissing approval and twitching his thighs upwards. It encourages Aziraphale to carefully press them in deeper, to add more oil and work them past the second knuckle. There is so very much of him disappearing into Crowley's slick hole, and he can feel the warm, eager rush of his own breathing.

"How is it?" Aziraphale asks quietly.

"Stings a bit," Crowley admits. "But in a good way, like my body needs to be coaxed past some sort of limit."

"They're called 'limits' for a reason, you realise that?"

"Nonsense." Crowley's tone has that familiar air of reckless enthusiasm and low-simmering arousal, he hikes his thigh up a touch more. "Give it a bit of a push."

Aziraphale mutters something uncomplimentary concerning his inability to refuse new experiences, but cautiously tries a gentle, twisting push. Crowley's slippery, tight, reddened rim gives a little, and Aziraphale's fingers sink deeper into him, almost to where the meat of his hand starts, and he feels the tightness grip and squeeze his flesh. A spasm of surprise that makes Crowley hiss a little.

"Fuck, ah, fuck, fuck."

Aziraphale knows Crowley well enough to neither advance nor retreat, but to give him a moment with the sensation. To simply leave his hand in that lovely clench of muscle, coaxing him to relax, to let him in deeper. His own arousal is a warm, heavy weight in his lower body, and it's making this whole experience incredibly potent, which is something he wishes to indulge as long as possible. A sentiment that often rears its head where Crowley's involved. He's become something Aziraphale indulges in frequently, something he loves and desires more than he'd ever thought possible.

After a pause, there's a breathless laugh, and Crowley carefully stretches his leg out, gives a slow push downwards and groans through it, before exhaling his next breath all at once.

"Yep, that definitely feels like something up my arse," he admits. "Come on, give me a bit more, I'm a bloody demon, I can take it."

"I have no doubt of that whatsoever," Aziraphale says gently. There's more oil, more careful pushing and stretching, then a gentle twist before his thumb is rubbing curiously where Crowley's body is already open around him. The slick shine of it, the deep flush of colour, that Aziraphale can't help but think feels pulled tight and raw. "I don't want to hurt you." Aziraphale can see the sweat on Crowley's throat, can feel the pinching spasm of his arsehole. "Tell me if it's too much, if you need me to stop, or to wait -"

Crowley interrupts with an annoyed noise of agreement, predictable, if unhelpful.

"I took two cocks up the arse at an orgy once - ah, easy, easy - but I was very, very drunk." Crowley gives a little gasp when Aziraphale hums curiosity, and tucks his thumb in, using the other hand to rub oil along the vivid, bright stretch of his anus and the slick curve of his hand. "Ah, fuck - don't stop - it hurt like Hell when I woke up. Considerably more than the hangover. I had to use a bit of occult encouragement to convince everything down there to let me walk out of the place the next morning. I've told you before how much it hurts to fix my corporation with a demonic miracle."

"You've often voiced the fact that it's more unpleasant than acquiring the original wound," Aziraphale remembers, pausing for a moment to let Crowley adjust to the thickness of him. He can feel the quick clenches, frustrated by the width of his hand, and the way they make Crowley's thighs tense and stretch, spine flexing in a way that suggests discomfort.

"It is, ugh, I think they do it on purpose to encourage us to suffer. It's like you're tearing all the body's atoms apart and convincing them to rebuild themselves from scratch - ngk, fuck that's sensitive - long story short, the moral of this story is - is -" Crowley stops, as if he's lost his train of thought.

"No more than one cock while drunk?" Aziraphale hazards.

Crowley laughs, an unexpected jerk of amusement that leaves his thighs pulling up, long chest gasping air. 

"Ow, ah, fuck, bastard angel, don't make me laugh when half your hand is in me."

"More like two thirds now actually," Aziraphale admits, and it is a beautiful sight, the stretched rim painfully wide around his twisting hand, the way Crowley's small buttocks shift on every gentle rock. Aziraphale's own desire is no longer content to remain ignored, it's now a sharp, wicked thing, cock solid and aching, in a way that straddles the line between exquisite and uncomfortable. But Aziraphale has discovered that there is a certain enjoyment in denying himself satisfaction, until it's almost unbearable. 

Crowley gives a strangled gurgle of sound, head tilted down to look at him, his wonderfully unique eyes blown wide and hungry. "Come on, angel," he pants out, thighs twitching with every careful nudge of pressure. "I know you like to tell me how pretty I look."

"You have no idea." Aziraphale's focus drops back to where he's coaxing Crowley's body to permit him entry. "You're stretched beautifully around most of my hand, and you're burning hot inside, soft and pink and greedy for it."

"Hnh," Crowley agrees. Aziraphale watches him slide a hand down his body, fingers wrapping round the angry, red line of his cock, giving it a quick, sharp squeeze. "Yeah, that I am."

"I feel like I could just push myself into you, make you open completely for me."

Crowley's toes clench, dragging up little twists of sheet. The muscles in his stomach jump and flex, throat rolling in a swallow. It's all so very affecting, watching Crowley react to pleasure. Aziraphale is not sure how he ever survived without it.

"Do it," he croaks out. "I can feel - fuck - I can feel how much you want to." His hand is moving on his dick now, slow, dragging pulls that makes his stomach twitch and jump, as if he needs to feel it. It's obvious that he's enjoying it, enjoying the stretch, the sharp bite of it, the way Aziraphale is determined to take it slow and easy, to make it last. 

"I refuse to rush," Aziraphale tells him. Though he does use his other hand to tip the bottle of oil over Crowley's slow-moving hand, oil spilling between his fingers to pool and dribble over the line of his cock. The stiff redness of it is glistening and shiny now, as it slips between Crowley's fingers. "Not when it's such an extraordinary experience."

Crowley's hand stutters, he gives three wet strokes and a moan that's almost obscene.

"Oh, you bastard. You're going to drag this out aren't you. Enjoy it as long as you possibly can." He sounds thrilled at the possibility, eyes unnaturally wide, spine flexing, toes clenching and gripping against Aziraphale's bare thigh.

"Of course," Aziraphale admits. "Pressing so much of myself inside you, watching you take me, it's captivating."

"You do remember that you've literally been all the way inside me before," Crowley reminds him. "Curled up inside my bones, touching me from the inside."

Aziraphale ignores him, perhaps in self-preservation, turning his hand carefully and slowly. Crowley's exhale sounds like a punch, whatever words he was going to say falling to pieces, now there's just a whine and a twitch of thigh. He squeezes his cock, rough and tight, doesn't let go after.

"Ah, fuck, do that again."

Aziraphale complies with the shaken request, the widest part of his hand shifting and pushing, and them slowly disappearing fraction by fraction into Crowley's over-stretched hole. Until something in Crowley's body gives to the slippery pressure, resistance less extreme, and Aziraphale's hand slides in all the way, the red ring of Crowley's anus clamping tight on his wrist, then spasming weakly around it.

"Ngk."

There's a fast huff of breath, and then a ragged moan that's half pain and half delirious approval.

"Oh, fuck, you're inside me, aren't you? You're all the way - all the way inside." 

Aziraphale hums an affirmative, throat too dry to speak, he can feel the burning warmth of Crowley's body, the squeeze on his fingers, the slickness of the oil coating everything. He can see the way Crowley's hole is twitching and pulling around the impossibly thick ring of his wrist, his whole hand buried in the demon's body. 

"Oh." Aziraphale has to hold himself still for a moment, blood roaring through his body at an almost frightening rate. He will confess, he's not entirely sure what he's supposed to do now. Is he supposed to turn? Or to thrust? He's not sure which, if any, Crowley will find pleasurable, and there's very little space to do either. The squeezing resistance, the sight of himself caught tight, the obscene spread of Crowley's thighs around Aziraphale's arm, is enough to leave his skin impossibly hot, his body one long ache at the sight, the feel, the sound of Crowley's stunned, shaken moans. But he surmises that the term was probably coined for a reason. He carefully draws his fingers together, curls them down and in, makes a fist.

Crowley groans at the pressure, legs spreading impossibly wider.

"Fuck, _Aziraphale_ \- " 

Crowley's heels drag in the sheets, he hisses a breath and Aziraphale feels him squeeze down on him, which makes his chest jerk, a pained moan pushed out of him. He can feel all the soft, smooth, vulnerable inside of Crowley, the slickness of oil rubbed everywhere, the curl of his fingers sliding between hard and soft. He turns his hand a little, finds his knuckles pressed against a smooth rounded area in what he imagines is roughly the right place.

There's a sharp, messy noise of surprised pleasure from up the bed, and Crowley's flailing hand catches his shoulder, fingers gripping tight. The demon's face is red, sharp teeth dug in his lower lip, eyes blown completely, pupils almost round.

"Azira- fuck - hnh."

Well, that certainly seems promising.

He stays where he is, turning and pressing, pushing inside a fraction with a slow rocking motion, in a way that makes Crowley's hips strain, and air wheeze out of his throat. He's slurring lovely nonsense on every movement. Aziraphale's wrist feels beautifully, viciously pinched. He pours more oil where they're joined, manages, somehow, through a dry throat, to tell Crowley how beautiful he is, how much Aziraphale likes this, how much he loves him. Moving, always moving, in twists, and pushes, and nudging passes across his prostate.

Crowley is panting now, great gulping breaths that punch out in groans, his abandoned cock an angry red, Aziraphale's other hand pressing one limp thigh up, so he can see every flex and tug and pull of his tightly stretched rim. While his knuckles rub against the swell of nerves inside him, over and over.

Until both Crowley's legs drag upwards, knees spreading, anus clenching in spasms around Aziraphale's wrist. He comes over his stomach and chest, with a whine of helpless, pained bliss, cock spurting untouched leaving pale, messy lines of semen on his skin, blown yellow eyes wide and stunned. He makes helpless sounds when his own twitching and squirming shifts Aziraphale's hand inside him, leaves him trembling and gasping as the last dribbles of come leak from the head of his cock.

Aziraphale uncurls his fingers gently, dragging a surprised cry out of the demon, legs jerking, arsehole squeezing painfully tight on Aziraphale's wrist.

"Fuck - ah - fuck, s'too much."

Aziraphale stills immediately, and Crowley groans complaint.

"Didn't say stop," he protests, with a wheezing laugh. His whole body is shaking with fine tremors, and every breath sounds half undone.

He makes weak, complicated noises when Aziraphale gently begins the slow and careful process of easing himself free, while Crowley's arsehole tugs and squeezes, seemingly determined to keep him inside. His small hisses and shivers and noises of pleasurable pain make the process far more intense than Aziraphale was expecting.

But his fingers eventually slip free, pink and slickly wet. The hole they leave is closing slowly and reluctantly, and Crowley gives a long, tired squirm, before stopping on a hiss.

"Ugh, it's like you're still in there," he says at last. Then exhales a breathless laugh. "Fuck, you've wrecked me, angel, I hope you're proud of yourself. Satan's tits, that was intense."

Aziraphale is already rising to his knees, his slippery hand wrapping around his cock for the first time, where it's hot and over-sensitive, and so very desperate. His balls are already tight and aching, a thrum that travels all the way through him with every movement. His own fingers are almost too much. He's not going to last long.

Crowley's arsehole is still loose and bright red, puffy and warm to the touch. Aziraphale can't resist gently sliding his thumb against the rim, tugging it open again, just a little, to see the smooth, pink inside, until Crowley jolts and gives a breathless whine, chest heaving.

"Aziraphale, _fuck_."

He murmurs an apology, lets his hand still.

"No - hnh, no, don't stop. I am exceptionally sore, and now I want you to fuck me so I can feel it all bloody night."

Aziraphale tries to remain still, to ask Crowley if he's sure, but for some reason his thumb won't stop sliding against that abused, slow-closing hole, still slippery and warm and greedy for him. He'd been intending to bring himself off over that puffy, bright opening. He hadn't expected that Crowley would want to be penetrated again afterwards.

"If it's uncomfortable, if it's too sensitive inside -"

"Then I'll squirm and sob on your cock, and you'll love every minute of it," Crowley fires back, huffs something tired and amused, then tries to drag Aziraphale in with his foot, but his legs appear unwilling to cooperate completely. Leading to him grunting annoyance and simply letting his legs splay open. As if hoping that will encourage Aziraphale to have him.

"You are an unbearable blight on my existence," Aziraphale says breathlessly, though it sounds an awful lot like _I love you_. He leans up over the demon, sliding into position and upending the last of the oil over his cock, before pressing the head down and breaching Crowley's over-warm body. He's never slipped in so easily, never sunk into Crowley's arse with such a slow, easy glide. It's magnificent, the way Crowley is so open for him, so wonderfully hot and well-used.

Crowley's nails drag in the sheets, pulling the cotton apart in lines, as he gives a long, slow hiss, legs pulling up and out.

"Ah, fuck that burns."

Aziraphale pauses and strokes his thigh, which is trembling a little. "If you need me to stop -"

"Don't - don't you fucking dare," Crowley slurs out, voice a tangle of shivery bliss and biting discomfort. "You feel so deep, it feels like you've hollowed out a space for yourself. S'good, hurts but it's good, keep going, hnh, keep going."

Aziraphale holds Crowley's legs open wider, letting one move up to rest against his shoulder as he gives long, shaken thrusts, desperate enough to not be as careful as he perhaps should. The pace leaves Crowley whining and gasping every time he's filled. He's beautiful like this, impossibly beautiful. Though Aziraphale can't help but worry about how hard he's taking him.

"Crowley, is this alright?"

"Stings," Crowley says, then shivers out a laugh. "It's good, don't stop." He sounds overwhelmed, breathless, his cock is red and filled with blood again, jolting on his stomach in soft jerks with the movement of Aziraphale's hips.

There's no way he's going to last any longer, buried in that space he'd touched and caressed, encouraged to clench and spasm and shiver around him. And Crowley is clearly over-sensitive, pained enough that he's hissing on every breath. Whether he's enjoying it or not, Aziraphale isn't going to draw it out. He doesn't resist when his body urges him forward, urges him deeper and faster, and air is whistling through Crowley's teeth, but he has his leg pulled up, other hand tight on Aziraphale's wrist. He's making soft, encouraging sounds, cut through with every endearment Aziraphale has ever proven himself weak to.

It's too much. It's overwhelming.

Aziraphale presses in deep, breaks open and shakes his way through orgasm, sweet and sharp and _perfect_ , buried inside his beautiful demon, who has always given him everything he's ever wanted, everything he's ever asked for, that he'd never known he needed. He doesn't deserve him. His body is still shivering and humming with bliss when his hand replaces Crowley's on his cock, that's still slick with oil and burning hot, the tip drooling come and pre-come both. His second orgasm spills out on a grunt, a breathless groan following it, as if this pleasure was sharper, and harder, before Crowley relaxes completely, legs falling open as if boneless.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, angel, I lied the first time, _now_ you've wrecked me."

Aziraphale leans down and kisses his red, panting mouth, strokes long hands down his sweating thighs.

"And I love you for it," Crowley adds, then taps him smartly on the side. "But get your dick out me, my arse is burning."

Aziraphale moans a laugh and gently slides free, before carefully moving the pillow beneath Crowley's hips, and easing down beside him in the bed. He can't resist looping an arm round the demon's sticky waist, kissing the curling snake in front of his ear. Crowley hums approval and carefully lets his legs close - before he seems to change his mind half-way, and leaves them open slightly.

"Fuck - we don't need to get up any time soon, right?"

Aziraphale breathes a laugh into Crowley's hair.


End file.
